Blood Ocean: Mamingdalafalafal
by nursehelena
Summary: While space vikings pillage the planets, Earth smoulders in the ashes of civil war. Mamingdalafalafal, the legendary blade instrumental in not one but two violent clashes within the metropolis of Mordland, is of interest to all. . .if only they could find it. AU based off the Blood Ocean movie. Polyamory abounds: T/S/N/P/C
1. Prologue

"Folks, if you would direct your attention to the overhead you will see that the seatbelt light has come on. We are due to experience regular turbulence as we enter Nieflheimr's atmosphere. . ."

Amongst a flourish of movement elsewhere in the cabin, Nathan Explosion merely gripped the armrests as resistance held the astroplane at bay. Then, following a downward lurch, their free fall ended with a stiffened diaphragm.

No matter how many times Nathan experienced it, he still hadn't accustomed to that particular sensation. A few others in the cabin passed out, a common problem, and someone's kid started crying. Nathan adjusted quickly, automatically taking the deep breaths he'd been trained to since his job compelled him to so frequently jump planets. Landing was never as bad as taking off, at least. The boost into outer space when gravity finally relinquished still forced him on occasion to reach for a puke sack.

The characteristic snow Nathan assumed he'd been looking at ever since Nieflheimr came into sight turned out to be clouds. Frost spread like eager fingers over his window as they dropped through, then the darkened world within opened up with the glow of city lights beneath. The speakers crackled again: "We will be landing shortly in Hvergelmir. The time is 18:30 p.m. and temperature on the ground is -52º. We hope you enjoyed your flight with. . ."

Nathan adjusted his watch. It used to bend his mind that every thirty-one space marks resulted in a lost second, but he'd long grown used to how space, speed, and time interacted. He had to, for work. Deadlines became a lot trickier when nothing remained absolute.

The light feeling he associated with Nieflheimr caused him to bounce slightly as he walked. Now came time to pull his jacket taut. Arriving from Musplheimr—which was in the full swing of summer—subjected him to a temperature drop of over a hundred degrees. He hated that logic dictated Niflheimr as the best kick-off site for intergalactic travel. What did it matter, once he, his new co-captain, and the crew they led boarded their flotilla and slipped through a wormhole? But then of course, law prohibited them from creating one within the Yggdrasil System, and head office frowned upon wasting the extra fuel necessary to bump them from any other starting point. . .

The latest dip in temperature drove everyone to the subway. With breath barely visible and the walls of ice glistening, Hrimthursar—the native residents of Nieflheimr—distinguished themselves from the crowd by peeling off their jackets and flapping their hands at flushed faces. To contrast, heat radiated from Nathan's skin. As an Eldjötnar—native to Musplheimr—his internal thermostat worked the opposite way. It kept others at a distance as the underground train brought him to his stop, then created a path as he headed for the base he considered his second home.

"ID, please?" The young woman working at the check-in desk smiled as Nathan searched his pockets. She tapped his card against the countertop after scanning it through her computer. "There's a message here for you. Crozier and your crew are already at Dock 12. They're hoping for a 20:00 send-off."

"Thanks."

Riding the YICA line offered a view over the city, seemingly abandoned at the surface. Not even those acclimated dared go out beyond their need, and with the pinprick of a sun disappeared beyond the curtain of snow and cloud ceiling above, Nathan didn't blame them. Hvergelmir, usually breathtaking, tapped his mood. Hopefully the place assigned to him was less depressing than this.

Crozier and the Hrimthursar Nathan assumed would be his co-captain were the only two people stationary while everyone rushed around them to make the projected departure time. They both stood with their arms crossed, watching the action. If this was indeed the final rush to get all the last details into place, then they might be able to get out of here early. Nathan became restless if he had to sit around too long.

"Good, you're here," Crozier grumbled when Nathan announced his arrival. "Have you met Skwisgaar before?"

Along with his height, Skwisgaar resembled the majority of his people with fair skin, hair, and eyes. His fatigues boasted similar schematic, primarily white with traces of grey and blue—the colours of Nieflheimr. He maintained an air of boredom as he extended a hand. His grasp cooled the Eldjötnar's palm. "I don'ts t'ink we has work toget'er before, but I knows who you am."

Crozier handed an envelope over. "The planet in question is Alpha Nero 7, located in the Andromeda Galaxy."

"Hm." A solid quadrillion space marks away, by Nathan's memory. "What are we looking for?"

"The scout's information is in here. Do with it what you will. I trust you to collect most if not all of what she reported. I'll see you in a couple weeks."

These bureaucratic types weren't much for conversation. Judging by Crozier, whom Nathan worked under for his entirety at Yggdrasil Imperial Collection Agency, the pencil pushers intended to close the cultural gap between Nieflheimr and Asgård, their system's administrative centre. One tradition Asgård kept alive, more for its practicality than anything else, was choosing one person from each Nathan and Skwisgaar's planets to captain the pillaging missions. Fire and ice, when projected outwardly into the universe, accomplished great things.

"Shoulds we board?"

"Might as well." Nathan led him toward the _Mustakrakish_, the ship he'd used for the past eleven years. After so long, it was difficult to forget sometimes that it didn't actually belong to him. "The first room's always mine, if you want to dump your shit and meet up on the bridge."

The _Mustakrakish_ and other such captain's ships were dwarfed in size by their cargo-carrying counterparts. Even then, the majority of space within was dedicated toward the technology necessary to get their party from one end of the universe to the other in a respectably short period. Having done all the necessary maintenance on it before his off-month and certain it'd been looked over at least twice in the meantime, Nathan forewent inspection and reacquainted himself with his usual seat. The cleaning crew could make his bed and shine the floors, but they could never get rid of the groove his ass created here.

"So what ams dis planet we goes to?" Skwisgaar flung a leg over one armrest when he joined Nathan. "I nevers heard of it."

"Me neither. Must be a new discovery. I've been to Andromeda a couple times." Nathan unsealed the envelope and rifled through the papers. He took the initiative on planning their route, setting the coordinates and getting the ship to search for the nearest spot where they could rip a wormhole into space. Seven space marks outside the boundary of Yggdrasil wasn't bad at all. "Lots of stars, lots to look at."

"I can'ts remember if I beens dere or not." With that, Skwisgaar fell silent. He thankfully mirrored Nathan's belief that they shouldn't speak everything worth saying before they'd even left the ground.

* * *

"Hey Pickles, check it out. I fuckin' got one."

With his brother distracted, a redhead with dreadlocks rolled his eyes. "Good fer you. 'N' stop callin' me thet."

"How come?" Seth's fish flopped against the surface of the Wisconsin River. "Dude, look at it. Fuckin' huge."

"Yeeuh, whetever." Pickles grew tired of explaining why he couldn't be referred to by that name anymore. Seth was the only one that still did. Even his parents, when he returned to their home in Tomahawk to lay low, accommodated his wish to go by his birth name. If they weren't so far from Mordhaus, and Murderface's iron fist in kind, Pickles might be a bit more forceful toward Seth. Not that they _hadn't _come to blows over it, of course.

"Mom and Dad are literally gonna shit when they see this." Seth grinned crookedly as he took a bonker to his catch's head. "Hey. Y'ever think about what life would be like as a fish? You're fuckin' swimmin' around, then bam, one day you're fuckin' gasping for air and some guy's killing you."

"If you rilly wanna figure it out I'd be happy t' show you."

"Ha, Pickles! You always make me crack up."

There really were days when Pickles would be more than happy to fulfill that threat. Maybe returning to his childhood home was a mistake. Not that he had much choice about where else to go. In relation to any sort of administrative importance within the metropolis of Mordland, his family was at the bottom of the barrel. Obscure. Pickles reminded himself several times throughout the day of the alternative, should he have stayed after the mutiny that ended both Charles' rule and life, in order to keep himself sane.

"Couple more, and we can go home." Seth tossed his fish into the bucket. "Starting to get colder, huh?"

"'Magine thet, winter's comin' again."

"Dude, why're you so miserable?"

This time of year always had that effect on Pickles. No matter how far away he'd snuck from Mordhaus as Murderface's disorganized reign of terror commenced, he could still hear the clatter of metal on metal as the incoming and outgoing rulers of Mordland struggled against one another. In hindsight, Pickles' confidence seemed incredibly naive; nobody expected the blade that preserved their race and planet from enslavement to shatter against an over-calcified face. No matter how many autumns passed, the shocked hush that followed haunted Pickles. When he picked up the pieces afterward, he held the remnants—the symbol—of Charles' shield against discord.

And did they ever need that back.

"Hey. You fuckin' ignoring me, or what?"

"Yeeuh. Shut the fuck up."

"Whatever. You're so fuckin' moody." Seth yanked on his line when a floating stick jostled it. "Did you see that vandals were in Tomahawk last night?"

Pickles shook his head.

"Yeah, more of the same crap. You'd think they'd explain what the fuck they're doin', not just write some guy's name everywhere. Otherwise, what do I care? A name's just a name, right?"

Seth kept on, but Pickles stopped listening again. His brother really didn't get it. He'd never left Wisconsin—or Tomahawk, for that matter—so his scope on how the world worked was severely limited. In a sense, Pickles envied him. Life must be so simple in ignorance. Seth never witnessed death, never lost a loved one, nothing like that. He didn't have to come crawling back home after ten years and play nice with his parents so that he had a place to rest his head at night. Did he even know what dissatisfaction felt like?

"See, right there," Seth needlessly pointed the graffiti out as they later headed for home. "I don't get it. Is it fuckin' rhetorical, or somethin'? If so, whoa, mind fuckin' blown."

Took him long enough. Whether or not this person actually existed somewhere on Earth, Pickles saw the name as more symbolic than genuinely meaningful. Whispers on the grapevine stated that all the people disappearing nowadays weren't sucked into Murderface's machine, nor were they squished beneath it. Fed up, people simply elected to head out into the Wastelands in search for something better.

"Mitch and Bobby say they heard he's powerful enough to take down Murderface. What do _you_ think?"

"I'onno." Yet another wall ahead got tagged with the insistent question. "Depends: who _is_ Toki?"

* * *

To the victor goes the spoils—in the three years since assuming his position, those words became a personal motto to Murderface. He lived by them decadently, with women, drink, wealth, and food. Whatever he wanted, he got it. . .which made it very difficult to accept that the blade responsible for the ugly scar across his left cheek and nose wasn't currently in his hands.

The process through which he attempted to find it annoyed him, at best. He had the means and influence, and yet. . .no sword. Today might be different, though. For the first time since Mordhaus' subterranean prison came under his name, the men he held onto for further questioning finally made themselves useful. Murderface, as a result, held his head high as he swaggered toward the cell containing his most valuable prisoner.

The heavy door clicked loudly as it came unlocked. Light spilled over the floor and illuminated an emaciated figure tucked away in the corner. For the thousand or so days Charles remained here, nearly that many methods to make him talk had been utilized. They starved him, shoved food into him until he threw up, left him in darkness, gave him light, withheld human contact, and so on, and so on. Just when Murderface poised to give his men the command to remove his head, someone else decided their limit toward the torture had been reached.

Murderface took a seat on the floor, catlike grin unsuppressed. "Scho. I heard a little schtory about a man named Picklesch."

He completely expected Charles to react, given that it was true. Considering the cuts attempting to heal in the webs of the man's hands and feet—the most recent technique to make Charles' mouth work—a rise of his head equated victory.

"He made that schtupid schword for you, didn't he?"

"Can't be that stupid if you're still. . ." Charles paused to cough, a weak sound with no force behind it. "If you're still looking for it."

"Where isch he?" Find the man, find the sword, as his informant implied.

"How should I know? Haven't seen him since you locked me up."

"I'm not schtupid. I know he'sch schomewhere in Mordland. He'sch not in the Waschtelandsch because if he wasch, he'd be with Toki. And he'sch not, becausche I haven't been attacked yet."

"Toki—?"

"Never mind. _I'm_ the one aschking queschtionsch around here," Murderface cut him off. Broken or not, Charles still managed on occasion to turn the interrogation around. The new Governor needed to watch for that. "Scho I want you to think really hard about thisch. If Picklesch wasch going to run off with that schword, where would he go? What'sch hisch real name? Where'sch he from?"

Charles' chin rested against his chest again with a quiet chuckle. "Why would I tell you anything? I have nothing to lose by keeping that to myself, and I don't care what I have to gain otherwise. You'll never find him, not unless he wants to be found. So go ahead: torture me all you like. It won't help."

"It doeschn't matter what you do. I'm going to find him."

"Then I'm going to make it harder for you."

Rather than give Charles the satisfaction that he'd pissed him off, Murderface left the cell. Further down the hall, when he could be sure that the prisoner wouldn't hear, a kick to the wall landed amidst a frustrated scream. He _hated_ Charles' confidence. Hadn't he been stripped of that yet? What did it _take?_ Why couldn't he beg for his life like the rest of them, and give up whatever information he had? He must know something important. Or he simply didn't care. Either way, Murderface had enough. His patience ended today. Time for drastic measures.

"Schend out an order," he told one of his hooded henchmen. "I want you to queschtion everyone in Mordland. Bring in anyone who knowsch anything about Picklesch, or who could possibly be him. I'm not playing thesche gamesch anymore."

"Yes, my master. And what of Charles? Would you like us to kill him?"

"No. I'll do it myschelf when the time comesch. Before that, though. . .I want him to schee that I've got Picklesch. I want him to losche all hope before he loschesch hisch life."


	2. Ginnungapap

The wormhole came out about a thousand space marks away from their target planet, not at all a bad aim. Now came the excruciating part of Skwisgaar's job, as he alternated between the bridge and his private quarters. Relaxed as a noodle after a particularly satisfying run at releasing tension, he lounged in the captain's chair designated to him. "Where on Musplheimr ams you from?"

"Bifrost."

"I never beens to you planet. Ams nice?"

"If you like it hot."

Unlike most other Eldjötnar Skwisgaar worked with, Nathan really didn't like to talk. Skwisgaar neither, for the most part, but cabin fever manifested itself as a strange anxiety. "Cans I ask you somet'ing?"

"Go ahead."

"You ams Oskar Explosion's son, ja?"

Nathan's jaw set. "Yeah."

"What ams de trut'?" Every time the Hrimthursar heard a new version of events, it grew more fantastic. "About what happens to him?"

Since their arrival in the Andromeda Galaxy, the Milky Way—its closest neighbour—hovered beyond the field of stars before them. Skwisgaar regarded it with quiet respect and a trickle of spite. One detail remained constant in every story of Oskar's demise that he heard: some planet within boasting a much less technologically inclined civilization was the only one to ever reject the vikings from taking over and filling their cargo ships with material goods. Did Nathan find it shameful, that only his father failed in the vikings' ever-extending reach into Ginnungagap? He at least made it home before he passed, unlike half his crew.

"He didn't tell me much." Nathan's response surprised Skwisgaar, for he didn't believe he'd get one. "But I saw the wound. That's what did it."

"What does you mean?"

"He got stabbed. It shouldn't have killed him, but his blood turned black and he lost his fire. The doctors that saw him figured he'd been infected with some alien bacteria. But they should've been able to handle that. Instead, it just got worse."

That explained their armour's improvement, since that happened. Adjusting to such an increase in weight proved difficult, not to mention a tad ridiculous, when Skwisgaar rarely encountered anything more sinister than beings and races motivated by fear or benevolence to let him do his thing. "So whats was it, den?"

"They figured he was poisoned. By what, who knows? The suits worn back by his men were inspected for air pathogens, as well as the dirt in their boots for anything else, and nothing came back weird. There are different germs on that planet, yeah, but nothing that should've done what it did."

"Maybe somet'ing put on de sword?"

"They didn't find anything in him when he died. No traces of bacteria or a virus."

"Maybes it die wit' him."

"They still would've found it."

"So. . .what's _you_ t'ink, den? You ams pretty certain it amn't dat whats kill him. It couldn'ts have just _happen_."

"I don't know." Nathan stretched his arms toward the ceiling. "But I don't really wanna talk about this anymore."

Skwisgaar _really _wanted to know what happened on that planet. Getting stabbed suggested a battle, as did the loss of half their crew. Maybe Oskar was lucky to have made it off there at _all_. What kind of race could inflict that upon one so much greater? How unsettling, that maybe technology was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. At least the suit Skwisgaar would put on when they arrived at Alpha Nero 7 offered some comfort. Heavy or not, it was designed to protect them from the same fate as Oskar. "How much longers until we gets dere?"

"I'd give it four hours."

Tired of watching celestial bodies through dimmed windows, Skwisgaar retreated again for his room. He'd already slept as much as he could, though that pastime wasn't on his mind as he undressed and crawled back under his blanket. His sex drive, difficult enough to quench on his off-month when he spent every night at Hvergelmir's bars, chafed at his mental soundness on these long journeys. What he wouldn't give for one good fuck right now. However, his resolve never again to mess around with a co-captain left him with no options beyond his own hand and whatever he brought along worth shoving up his ass. His face fell slack against the pillow and warmth pooled wherever it could as he recalled the last pair of hands to grip his waist. He hadn't expected someone so dirty to wind up so satisfying. And to think Skwisgaar nearly passed the viking up when a once-over turned his nose. Sometimes desperation wasn't such a terrible thing.

He hit the shower afterward. Might as well get cleaned up for landing. Nathan probably wouldn't bother, Skwisgaar figured as he resumed his seat with fresh clothes, a hair brush, and an elastic band. "We goings to go down dere rights away?"

"Might as well. Judging by the radio chatter, the crew's getting pretty restless." Since Skwisgaar's removal to his private quarters, Nathan had ditched the heavy coat he boarded with and stripped down to his fatigues, black with red and gold embellishments. The colours came standard from Musplheimr, the grease stains. . .not so much. Didn't he realize that the bay crews back on Nieflheimr crawled around under the ships so that _he_ didn't have to? "You're ready for it?"

"Ja, I wouldn'ts mind gettings t'ing underway," Skwisgaar agreed. "Or lookings around a bit, dere. Just to stretch my leg."

"Always kind of cool to see a new place. I hope the locals don't try anything too stupid. But, going by the scout report, they didn't display any extraordinary abilities or intent to harm."

"Ams good." In any circumstance that someone attempted to corner Skwisgaar when he wandered off on his own, they tended to stop as soon as they realized his capacity to manipulate water and ice. The Hrimthursar witnessed too the sons of Musplheimr fend potential assailants off with a scorch of black flame. That put any renegades back in line even quicker than the ionized Mjölnir steel their swords were composed of.

Skwisgaar brushed all the knots from his hair before removing his seat's headrest and leaning back to rebraid it. In contrast to Nathan's simple style beginning at his crown and secured at the nape of his neck, the Hrimthursar preferred something a little more elaborate. Ornamental, when he could get away with it. He played with it a while to kill the boredom, then settled on practicality by mirroring Nathan's. Nimble fingers worked their way right down to the end.

"Well." Nathan cracked his fingers. "We'll be there in about half an hour."

Skwisgaar rose as well. Finally. The worst part of their voyage was over. On the radio, fellow pilots expressed their eagerness to one another, as well as put out the orders for all to prepare. The Hrimthursar already zipped the first layer of his suit. He tucked his braid in, then donned his armour. Each piece synchronized with the undergarment, magnets pulling everything into place to optimize comfort and maneuverability. He wiggled his helmet back and forth until it depressed against his shoulders and the initialization process scrawled words across his view. The visor automatically dimmed to accommodate the ship's lights, then the temperature and composition of the air flashed on the screen before turning transparent and minimizing to the bottom right corner. Only when he concentrated on them would they define themselves again.

Boots, gloves, and his cloak finished him off. He strolled back to the front of the ship, more interested in testing his suit's functionality than peering down at the planet they came to a stop before. Didn't look like much. Water outweighed land significantly, and no lights existed on the dark half of the continent below. When the vikings sat up here like this, the rest of their convoy fanning out around them, were they visible from down below? Did fear sink into these peoples' hearts? Did they send their children to hide until this all ended?

Nathan pressed the radio intercom. "Prepare to land."

"Roger."

Skwisgaar strapped in as tightly as he could, next to Nathan. He didn't look closely enough at the scout's field report to realize that this place hadn't even developed a power grid. What would it be like, to live such a simple life, and then one day _this_ happens? Did they even have anything worth taking? How foolish would Skwisgaar and Nathan look, showing up with a dozen ships and only filling the corner of one with clay pots?

Skwisgaar hardly even realized they'd entered the atmosphere until the _Mustakrakish_ fought against gravity. Like their launch and subsequent slip into the seams of space, Nathan eased them in. Confirmations of stability came in over the radio; while Nathan continued toward ground, Skwisgaar counted them off. "Ams all of dem."

"Our landing zone is twenty-nine degrees northwest, on a seventy-two degree downspin. Look for a field outside the village. We'll lead the way."

Nausea touched Skwisgaar as they slowed near the ground. Ugh. Cruising through space spoiled him. He sighed with relief when a final lurch touched them down. Several days now, until he needed to experience that all over again.

"_Mustakrakish_ is on the ground. Confirm."

Another chorus came in over the radio. "Dat ams all. Let's get off dis fucking ships off."

"Gotta say: I was starting to get a little claustrophobic." Nathan set killing the engine into motion. "Kinda looking forward to looking around. It's been a while since I went somewhere so simple."

In one last pause at the door, Skwisgaar donned his belt and sword. His visor dimmed again with natural light, though not fast enough to keep him from squinting. The thermostat blinked in its corner: 29º. Not _bad_, per se, but _much_ warmer than the Hrimthursar was used to. If not for the fact that radon composed forty percent of the atmosphere, Nathan would probably just take his helmet off.

"The natives were instructed to gather anything with precious metal in the centre of the village. If they listened, we'll start packing. If not, search their dwellings," Nathan bid the crew. "And don't take anything else. The report states that the amount of gold, silver, and platinum gathered by the locals is nothing compared to what remains unearthed. Head office hopes to come back, so they want to keep a positive relationship with these guys."

"There's going to be enough in this one village to fill all our ships?" Someone at the front of the crowd asked.

"No. We're going to leave two ships here and carry on west, to the next one. Take some time to get acquainted with the place. Those who arrived on Cargos One and Two, follow us."

Nathan taking charge over everything left Skwisgaar very little to do. Although he walked beside the Eldjötnar, he might as well have taken up the rear with general crew. It didn't bother him like it might other captains, which he'd learned over the years. He still presented the first impression of Nieflheimr this race would experience. As the locals came into view, poking their heads out of their makeshift shelters. Their proportions—rather than height—indicated adulthood. Cautious approach behind the least dirty individual revealed that the tallest probably only came up to Skwisgaar's belly button.

"We. . .we learned your language, as we was told," he spoke. "My name is Jomfru. Would you meet our leader first? He is Jomfru, as well."

Skwisgaar looked at Nathan out of the corner of his eye, somehow aware the Eldjötnar did the same in kind. "We ams here for t'ing, not to visit."

"Please, he has wait long months to speak."

Nathan's voice came through the smaller, internal speaker of Skwisgaar's helmet. "We'll get the others going first?"

"Ja, I guess. Never horts to start buildings de rapport."

The order went out over the radio, then Nathan switched back to the primary communication unit. "Take us to him."

The skinny thing before them showed mixed emotion as the crew branched out in direction of the nearest homes. Nathan and Skwisgaar themselves headed for the largest hut, up ahead. "What's your leader's name?"

"Jomfru."

"That's _your_ name."

"We are both Jomfru. We are brother."

The variations in language throughout the universe fascinated Skwisgaar. They reflected the culture they arose from; in this case, simple people utilized a simple naming scheme. The Hrimthursar could tell the difference between the Jomfrus by the nuances in how each was referred. _This_ Jomfru was deadpan; the other, regarded with respect amongst his people. Nathan didn't notice that, apparently. He took to calling the first one Thin Jomfru and the leader, upon sight, Fat Jomfru.

Although even further dwarfed by the vikings, Fat Jomfru showed no signs of intimidation. He indicated the dirt floor before him. "Sit."

"We'll stand."

"Tell me your names?"

"I'm Nathan, proud son of the great fire planet of Musplheimr," the Eldjötnar recited the general proclamation memorized by every graduated pillager.

The Hrimthursar did the same: "And I am Skwisgaar, prodigy of ice and water, from de frozen planet of Neiflheimr."

"The others who came before, they were from another?"

"Asgård."

"Yes. I was under the assumption that you, like us, only call one planet home. Would you tell me about your culture? Until Ms. Remeltindrinc came, I assumed we were the only ones in the universe."

"Our culture and history is extensive. As you are inducted into the Yggdrasilian Empire, you will be joined by vikings who will teach you and your people our ways."

Fat Jomfru hesitated. "So in other words, you are telling me that there are no negotiations possible to leave us be. We have nothing of interest to offer you."

"You have gold here. Lots of it. And other valuable metal."

"Gold?"

Thin Jomfru interjected in their native language.

"The—? But that's our currency! Our trade stock!" If Fat Jomfru could stand, he probably would in outrage. Just in case his anger inspired anything in his brother or the others loitering around, Skwisgaar rested his hand on his sword. "You can't rob us like this!"

"We can, and we're going to. Honestly, even meeting with you like this is just a formality. I would suggest you make this as easy as possible, for us and your people."

"I would suggest you. . ." Fat Jomfru faltered as the hilt of Nathan's sword caught what little light existed in the shaded hut. "I didn't understand, when Ms. Remeltindrinc was here. She didn't explain this part of it. I was under the impression of—"

"Cultural exchange. Ja, we knows." Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Dat ams what dey all say."

"We refuse to cooperate. You can't take advantage of us like this, just because we aren't as powerful as you!"

"Watch us. Come on, Skwisgaar. We've still got fifteen more villages to visit."

Their exit turning sour almost happened quicker than the Hrimthursar could register. A cry from behind, the flash of Nathan's sword, and stunned silence preceded Thin Jomfru's dagger falling to the ground. Nathan caught him right between the eyes; Thin Jomfru focused on the blade until it sliced through brain and skull alike with his collapse. His gaze unfocused.

"You—you killed my brother." Fat Jomfru trembled, eyes wide and mouth agape.

"Should've put a leash on him." Nathan sheathed his sword. "We aren't here to harm your people, but we _will_ protect ourselves. You would do best to keep your men out of our way.

"Odin, I fucking hate doing that," Nathan told Skwisgaar over the radio as they left Fat Jomfru's hut. "He didn't have to lunge at me."

"You dids what you had to." Skwisgaar sighed. "Even if we ams going to be ups to our ear in paperworks, now. . ."

"I feel more sorry for whoever's coming to civilize this place. They're going to meet some resistance now, that's for sure."

"Amn'ts really our problem."

"No. . .you're right."

That didn't make it any easier to witness. Radio silence allowed them to wallow in their respective discomfort. Sympathy didn't find much space or use in this profession, but Skwisgaar still experienced it. Surely, if he had a brother, he'd be incredibly upset to lose him in such a way. To lose him at _all_.

They returned to the _Mustakrakish_, disinfected their suits, and removed them in order to lead the other cargo ships to their destination. The short days on Alpha Nero 7 gave the impression that they played hide and seek with the sun and, thankfully, no one else had to die in order for Nathan and Skwisgaar to make their point in the other villages. With the radio chatter devoid of misadventure, the _Mustakrakish _touched down again at the rendezvous point—the field in which they'd initially landed.

Tired, although not quite ready for sleep yet, Skwisgaar switched to the ship's back office and compiled the files necessary for a full field report. "I puttings de form for a native casualty in all dis, for you."

Nathan grunted. "You know, given all the work I've done so far on this mission compared to you. . ."

"Don't starts wit' dat crap. You wanteds to be in charge, so I lets you. I didn'ts kill dat guy, so I amn't doings de papers. I does everyt'ing else, evens de catalog, but you ams doing dat."

"Just do it."

"I can'ts hear you. . ." Noise-cancelling headphones played back the oral log Skwisgaar downloaded from his helmet to the ship's internal hard drive. Nathan spoke again, then threw his arms up when the Hrimthursar commenced to ignore him. Skwisgaar hit pause when the other viking dug his suit out again. "Where ams you going?"

"Word on the radio is that the crew found some ale in the village."

"We amn't supposed to—"

"Lighten up. I've had a shitty day."

"Whatsever." Skwisgaar went back to his work. The annoyance that arose with Nathan's sudden laziness and blatant disregard to their strict code lingered even as he later tried to fall asleep. If Skwisgaar foresaw the Eldjötnar using his dominating attitude to get out of work, he would've put up a fight against it. Whatever. Either way, it was a waste of energy. Just suck it up and fill the form, then he didn't have to worry about it again when he got home. If Nathan wanted to screw things up, he could do them for himself. Skwisgaar wouldn't dirty his hands of it.

Clanking in the bridge woke him up far sooner than he would've liked. What the hell was he doing _now?_ After pulling on enough clothes to be decent, Skwisgaar rested his hands on his hips and clucked his tongue as he took in his drunk co-captain. "Just hold stills. You amn'ts getting not'ing off when you fuckings around like dat."

A whiff of ale came with the removal of Nathan's helmet. "Ugh. You drunks."

"Fuck you."

"Gets you shit off and goes to bed. We gots anot'er long day tomorrow."

"I'm not going to bed yet," Nathan slurred.

"Ja, you ams. Not'ing else to do, unless you wants to do you parts of de paperwork. You could screws it up and gives me somet'ing _else_ to does tomorrow when I fix it."

"Hey. Could you do me a huge favour?" Nathan kicked his boots off haphazardly. "And just shut up for a minute?"

Skwisgaar frowned, completely unimpressed. "Good nights."

He'd barely gotten comfortable again when the ship's engine rumbled to life. Eyes shooting open, Skwisgaar cursed and ran back out of his room. "What de hell am you doings? You can'ts fly dis anywhere!"

"You mean _I_ can't fly, right now. C'mere."

"No. Cuts de engine and goes de fuck to sleep."

"No."

"I can'ts even believe dis shit." Regardless of his anger, Skwisgaar dashed back to get pants and joined Nathan on the bridge. "I flys you to de next village, but fucks Nat'an, if Crozier or Stampingtons or anyone ask about dis, you cans bet on Odin's great beard dat I t'rows you under de bus!"

Nathan waved him off like an annoying pest. "Get us off this planet."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I amn'ts—!"

"JUST FUCKING DO IT!"

"You owes me so fuckings much for dis." Skwisgaar took Nathan's chair. "All de paperwork ams on you, now. I nots doing it if you makes me fly."

"Fine, fine."

"Puts you seatbelt on, or I amn'ts going _nowhere_."

Who would believe this shit? Never in all his seven years as a captain had Skwisgaar _ever_ done something so stupid. Like a drooling moron, Nathan pressed his face against the window when they floated beyond Alpha Nero 7's atmosphere. "Turn the ship more that way."

"Ams you going to tells me what dis am alls about?"

Nathan visibly tensed as the Milky Way came into view. "I killed a guy today. Sure it was in self-defence and all that, but. . .my father died something like that, Skwisgaar. Over there."

The degree of lividity boiling away inside the Hrimthursar slightly settled. By Nathan's rough and gruff attitude, Skwisgaar assumed he took the downsides of this job in stride. Why else would he carry on with his pillaging missions after Oskar's demise?

"Make a wormhole with these coordinates: neg four-nineteen GS—"

"What?" Skwisgaar's brow refurrowed itself. "We amn'ts going over dere. Ams you fucking crazy?"

"I just wanna look—"

"Nat'an, don't be—"

"I JUST WANNA LOOK AT IT!" Nathan clenched his eyes shut with a rise in volume. When his echoing voice faded away, he cleared his throat. "Please. Just do it."

"Fors de record, I hates everyt'ing about dis." Regardless, Skwisgaar acquiesced. However tired he was, however annoyed and anxious this made him, he didn't like to see anyone in such a state of turmoil. Hopefully they could jump back and forth before anyone noticed them missing. Not that any of the crew had anything to say, drinking on the job as they were. Really, a large chunk of this voyage would be best left out of the field report. "Straps back in."

The windows adjusted for a brighter galaxy. Looking around, Skwisgaar saw nothing of interest. "Where ams it? Does you know where you going, here?"

"Sort of, yeah. My father told me." Nathan stood beside the blond. "Let me take over. It's not far from here."

"You still drunks. Just tells me where to go." Due to his assumption the Doomstar System would never be relevant to his work, Skwisgaar's lack of research into it left him with no idea what to expect. That made him nervous, for usually before taking the pilot's role he studied and meticulously planned his route from wormhole to destination. He took a deep breath as he turned the ship and a gigantic, red planet seemingly appeared from nowhere. "Ams dat it?"

"No, that's Jupiter." Nathan's face pressed against the window again. "Head toward the star. It's a couple more inward."

"Dis ams dangerous. . ." Skwisgaar spoke only to himself, judging by the other viking's decision to ignore. The windows dimmed drastically to accommodate the writhing, burning mass at the system's centre. If they had time or fuel to spare, he would much rather take an indirect route. However, in order to completely escape their crew's notice toward disappearing, Skwisgaar wanted to get back as soon as possible.

"There's an asteroid belt up ahead," Nathan forewarned the Hrimthursar. "It's pretty sparse, though. We should be okay."

"You couldn'ts give to me closer coordinates?"

"Those're what my father used. Only ones I know."

Whatever Nathan's assertion toward the belt's thickness, Skwisgaar kept a close eye on his radar. They could still get hit by something out of nowhere. It beeped a couple times to alert him of floating masses nearby, but nothing even came into his sights. Regardless, he cringed every time a piece of space dust pinged hard enough off the _Mustakrakish's_ side to hear it. The reality of their location—the deafening silence—hurried Nathan along to sobriety. He paced, mirroring Skwisgaar's anxiety. A collective sigh of relief sounded between them when they cleared the belt and could once again accelerate.

"Okay. Where ams I going now?"

"My father told me it's about a hundred space marks from its sun."

"Same as Asgård," Skwisgaar remarked. Relating this alien, dead place to something more familiar made him feel better. "I's hoping we don'ts got to goes all de way to de ot'er side to sees dis place."

"We shouldn't. Its revolution is also similar to Asgård, and it's been nearly three years to the day that they came here."

Skwisgaar kept course for the sun with that, craning around for the planet dubbed HDNA-1 by their higher-ups. His stomach flip-flopped when a tiny dot interrupted the sun's unyielding glare. "Ams dat it?"

"Gotta be."

Not until the _Mustakrakish_ got close enough to hover in HDNA-1's shadow could Skwisgaar see the outlines of continents below. Satellites and other stagnant pieces of junk formed a superficial barrier, through which the Hrimthursar carefully maneuvered on his way to the planet's dayside. How odd. . .no power-grid to complement their apparent, extensive communication? No way could they have launched all this shit up here without electricity.

"I don'ts like de feel of dis place," Skwisgaar stated. Either way, his mouth fell slack when, coming up over the horizon, lively shades of green and blue dominated the planet. Clouds floated about, and the north and south poles reminded him even further of home. The upper portions of the northern hemisphere fell prey to scattered storm systems, indicating oncoming winter much the same way it leisurely presented itself on the only other place in the universe Skwisgaar could compare it to. Its splendour drew him from his seat to stand beside Nathan. "I nearlys expeck to looks down and see de marble and golds halls of Valhalla."

"My father said something like that about it too. But the humans have trashed it pretty good."

"Ams too bad." Their own race had done the same to Asgård, before expanding outwardly through the Yggdrasil System a little less than a thousand years ago. Their first colony turned civilization landed them on Aflheimr, a flat, boring landscape of twiggy trees and tundra as far as the eye could see in every direction. Rich in thorium though, which gave the mines of Asgård the rest necessary to restore some of its previous glory. "I guess dey didn'ts figure out how to lives in space before dey fucks it up, ja?"

"The Doomstar System is pretty much a wasteland. All but that." Nathan nodded at it. "To their credit, they needed to get along a lot further than us in their technology before they could start moving around. The closest planet barely has an atmosphere. And the next one closest to the sun is too hot for them to live on."

"How hots?"

"Only about sixty degrees, but they have a very narrow temperature window they can survive in. Even down there, it only varies about ten degrees."

"You's fucking joking." Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. "If dey ams dat fragile, den why couldn'ts. . .? Wells, you know."

"That's what my father was trying to figure out before he died. Just think about how vulnerable they are. If this planet ever got damaged, they'd have no safety net to flee to. If it got another degree warmer on average, they'd be totally fucked."

"I guess in a ways, you gots to respeck dem for makings it dis long. Although I shores you don'ts want to does dat, considerings what dey do to you family."

"If you don't respect your enemies, you'll never defeat them," Nathan replied.

"What's you mean by dat? Surely dere am reason why we hasn't sents in couple horde to takes dem over by force? Why dey am still calleds HDNA," an acronym standing for Hostile, Do Not Approach. "It can'ts be about respeck. Dere am somet'ing creepies about dese people. Dey gots no light, but dey gots all dis shit floatings around up here. Dey ams all alone in dey system, but dey sticks it out. Ams dey brutes? Savages? Sorcerers?"

"I don't want to believe that. The magic part, anyway. But given how my father died, you're right: there's something odd about them."

"Ams a bit humblings, amn't it?"

Perhaps they _would_ take over HDNA-1, sooner than later. At the rate their race spread throughout the rest of the universe, it was entirely inevitable. No matter what advantages this primitive species boasted, the vikings would find a way around it. Skwisgaar hoped it happened within his lifetime. He'd like to visit this place, if he could.

A sudden blow to the _Mustakrakish_ sent the Hrimthursar sideways, off his feet. Nathan landed just as hard next to him. "What de fucks was—?"

And then the lights went out.

"What the fuck?" Nathan scrambled up and craned out the window. "I think a satellite just ran into us!"

"De engine didn'ts die, did it?" Skwisgaar cringed as a pain shot through his hipbone, on which he'd squarely landed. It didn't compare to the pure terror that flooded him when he received no response from the _Mustakrakish_. "Ah, Nat'an? We kinds of got a situgation here."

"Get out of the way. Let me try."

The blond crossed his fingers that maybe, with his long-standing history aboard this ship, Nathan might think of something he himself couldn't. The lights flickered once, as did their hope, before the engine's pathetic whir perpetuated absolute silence. "Whats about de radio? It don'ts need power, tries it!"

"Even if it works, the rest of the crew is nearly eighteen trillion space marks away."

"Tries it anyway!"

Not above it, Nathan shoved the headset on. "_Mustakrakish _to Cargo One through Twelve, does anyone read?"

"Tries again," Skwisgaar snapped when only the whistle of vacuum replied. He didn't even care if the humans tuned into the distress call. Not like they could come get them, if some of their own guys, by the will of Odin, heard.

While Nathan kept attempting to elicit some reaction from the engine, Skwisgaar rested his forehead against the window. Was it worse if they careened off into space, destined to float until they finally ran out of food, or if they crashed on this Odin-forsaken planet? This couldn't really be happening. He must've eaten too much before sleep, to have such a convincing nightmare. Were they really going to die? They couldn't; there had to be precautions against something like this happening. This surely wasn't the first time a ship suffered damage in Ginnungagap.

Oh, right, there _were_ precautions. It was called _staying on the fucking planet you're supposed to be on and not fucking around without telling anyone where you're going._

Skwisgaar couldn't suppress the tremble of hatred in his voice. "Dis am all _yours_ fault."

"Putting the blame on me is _really_ helping, Skwisgaar."

"Well, it ams!" The blond snapped. "I wouldn'ts even fuckings be here, if you didn'ts decide you need to comes look at dis stupid rock!"

"How the fuck was I supposed to know a satellite was going to hit us?"

"We didn'ts _has_ to knows dat! We shouldn'ts has come!" Unreal, all the things Skwisgaar would never see again. Nieflheimr, gone. Home. Even his mother, who'd never know what happened to her only child. Despite the fact that they never really got along, a lump formed in Skwisgaar's throat. He was going to die here with Nathan Explosion, the unpredictable captain that couldn't suppress the desire to gawk at the celestial body that now claimed two more vikings. He could potentially kill the idiot. But would it make Skwisgaar feel any better? Now that he faced death, did he want to die alone?

"Look, I'm not much for apologizing, but I feel like shit," Nathan said. "I shouldn't have drug you along."

Tersely as he spoke, a sincerity surrounded the Eldjötnar. In one sense, Skwisgaar couldn't give two squirts of piss about his remorse since it didn't change a damn thing about their situation. But it was a creature comfort, at the end of it all. "We ams getting closer to de planet."

Nathan abandoned his attempts at the ship and radio to stand beside Skwisgaar again. "I think you're right."

"What's we do?" Skwisgaar tightened his crossed arms to suppress a tremble. "You knows, if we survives de crash?"

"I dunno about you, but I'm going to get my suit on. If we're going to die, I'm going out like a viking. If we've got to face the humans. . .I'm going to do it like a viking."


	3. New Valhalla

Winter having slammed Mordland, the work season officially ended. Fortunately, Pickles developed enough of a rapport with his boss that the nearest cattle ranch remained an option in exchange for a handful of coins each day. Wading through two feet of snow exhausted him before he even got a chance to feed and water the herd. Regardless, he worked hard to earn his pay; plenty of younger, stronger, more motivated men and women would jump at the chance to take his spot.

The pub's dark atmosphere called him in the evening to drown the sorrows of monotony. Pickles hated his job. If not for the lack of money should he quit, he would've done it a long time ago. His talents went wasted here. Knifesmithing was his calling. Seth and his buddies enlisted the redhead to make daggers in exchange for tobacco and beer from a very early age, and once they gave him enough practice, Pickles opened shop. Then one day, in his late teens, the Mordland ambassador to Earth City strolled in and changed Pickles' life by offering the chance to make cutlery for Mordhaus' leadership. One unlikely friendship and a dabbling into swordsmithing later, and—

A pair of hands clapped down on his shoulders. "Pickles, buddy!"

"Don' call me thet." Like Seth, Mitch and Bobby never bothered to correct themselves.

"What _should_ we call you, then?"

Pickles sighed. "Wheddaya need?"

"Nothin', really. Just lookin' for Seth."

"Yeah, you seen'm?"

"Naht since this morning." Despite the miserable weather outside, neither of these jackasses changed out of their usual clothes. Their jeans were soaked past the knees, and while Bobby wrapped a headband around his ears (still exposing his receded hairline to the wind), Mitch wore the same dirty hat as usual. "Maybe Mom wouldn' leddim go out to play, today."

They stupidly guffawed; Bobby nudged Pickles with his elbow. "Tell him when you see him that he missed some good stuff today."

"Yeah. Good stuff."

They moved on, thank Ishnifus. Wisconsin sure had gone to the dogs; its crime rates piqued everywhere but Tomahawk. . .only because the ones to stir the shitpot called this crappy little town home. Funny, how Murderface's prior status as one of Mordland's most reputable police officers should've clued him into Seth, Mitch, and Bobby's black market activities. What good was putting away one of the worst serial killers in recent history if he couldn't halt death where the numbers racked up much more drastically?

Speaking out against Murderface's administration, even in the boonies, wasn't a good idea. Pickles wasn't Pickles anymore, even if he answered to that name and identified as such. His days of making cutlery, even, were over. His niche in the new economy would earn him enough to drink his boredom and bad feelings away each night, then buy a loaf of bread for the folks. Hard physical labour preoccupied his mind; for ten hours a day, he _was_ just some guy who'd never left his hometown or answered a higher calling. But then walking down the road back home, when his muscles and mind gave way to fatigue, Pickles saw the world around him for what it was.

Six years passed since the vikings altered Earth forever. Perhaps they posed little threat on human life in comparison to Murderface, but they presented a truth no one else seemed willing to face: life existed out there, and they might very well be in the way. Not that it made a difference. . .between a hostile alien race and Murderface, this world was as good as over. Humanity had a good run, didn't it?

Existing on a ball of molten rock hurling through the vacuum of space begged the question: could Pickles imagine more vividly his own nonexistence or the nonexistence of everything all at once? Since the ability to inquire proved anomalous self-awareness, he stood apart from Earth's less conscious creatures, who would always take life for granted. They could never comprehend death by Manifest Destiny. Their limitations of physiology promised paradise right until the bitter end. Consequently, those here trapped by a bottle became humanity's honesty. They desperately alleviated thought because once upon a time the miracle of their lives necessitated great will not to feel chosen by some higher power.

Ugh, these thoughts left such a bitter taste in Pickles' mouth. Only beer could temporarily ease his nihilism. As a result, he stumbled home later through the snow, preoccupied with what to tell his parents when the bread money once again went down his gullet in liquid form. He rightly expected confrontation, though not on the front lawn.

"Wait, whet. . ." Pickles wobbled where he stood. His mother was more upset than angry. "Whet're you tellin' me?"

"Some men came 'n' took yer brother away!" Molly's shrill voice caused the redhead to flinch. "Said he might be _you!_"

"Whet? Thet don' make no sense." Was Seth finally going to answer to all his illegal activities?

"They wouldn' listen ta me 'n' yer father! I dunno whet you did, but you need to clear it up. Go find 'em 'n' tell'm they've made a mistake!"

"But I gaht werk in the morning, 'n' whet the feck does _Seth_ do all day—?"

"I don' care if he's scratchin' his ass, they assumed he was you 'n' wouldn' listen to reason. Go get Sethy back before they hurt him!"

"Whetever, jest lemme get a dry coat. . ."

Not that it helped him keep warm, Pickles changed his wet pants and jacket before heading back out. Goddamn it, Seth. Did he finally get snatched up by someone he fucked over? But his mom said they were looking for _Pickles_.

Whoever these men were, they seemed to make themselves scarce. Pickles didn't want to return home without news or, worse, without Seth, but what could he do? When did it even happen? How long were Mitch and Bobby searching for him? There was another thing to consider: surely, if this had anything to do with their bullshit, then Mitch and Bobby would either be in the know or gone as well.

Uneasiness tainted Pickles stomach, the more he sobered up. But they thought Seth was _him_. His mom never specified, but were they searching for _Pickles_, the former knifesmith of Mordhaus who once forged the most powerful object known to—?

Now just hold on a minute. Did this justify his paranoia? Had Murderface _really_ searched the last three years for him? Did he finally reach the right neighbourhood of Mordland, and just snatch the wrong brother? Fuck, how long until Seth cracked and gave Pickles up? He never could handle stress. What about torture? They weren't torturing his brother right _now_, were they, for information?

Pickles' feet rooted to the spot at the first sound indicative of someone else too wandering this desolate night. An animal the size of a cow wading through the snow. Forcing himself to his senses, Pickles crouched down in the shadow of a building and waited. Beneath the moonlight, the predicted animal and a rider shrouded in black clothing emerged in the closest intersection. It stilled, not unlike a ghost; only the occasional snort from the horse showed any sign of life. What were they doing? Did this person know Pickles was out here somewhere?

More snorting came from the same direction Pickles arrived. Although certain the riders couldn't see him, nor their animals sense him, he pressed his head back against the wall and held his breath. One wrong move. . .

"Any luck?" One asked the other.

"Not him," a gruff response came.

"How sure are you he wasn't lying? He's been hiding _this_ long."

"He confessed to a lot of crime—seemed to expect that's what we wanted to hear. Get this, though: Pickles is his brother."

A pause, in which all raised their heads. "You're sure he wasn't just saying that to make you stop?"

"Only one way to find out, isn't there?"

"Right. So what all did he say?"

"His brother works at the ranch down the road, usually spends his evenings on the pub a couple streets over. We'll try both those places."

"And I'll go wait at his parents' home," another volunteered. "He's gotta show up there eventually."

Like hell he did. Pickles sat limply in shock until the sounds of the horsemen receded. Seth was okay, right? They didn't hurt him too badly? Maybe he hated his brother sometimes, but that didn't mean it brought Pickles pleasure to know someone else poked and prodded him.

Much as he expected this to one day happen, assuming that Murderface wanted Pickles brought back to Mordhaus, the reality of it refused to sink in. Regardless, Pickles picked himself up. He couldn't stay any longer. Not only were Murderface's men here, but they'd hurt his family to find him. Fuck, what if they drilled his mother next on the whereabouts of her second child? If it meant getting Seth back, she might just. . .

No time to deal with dejection and a sense of inferiority. Pickles could do that when he'd effectively disappeared himself again, moved to another town and assumed a new name. Where would they least likely find him? If they expected him in the area, then pretty much anywhere else would do, right?

He underestimated how certain the riders were on his location. A maze of streets came to dead-ends; men on horses hadn't infiltrated Tomahawk, they'd infested it. Three hours later, Pickles only moved backward, in direction of the Wastelands. Was he desperate enough to leave Mordland entirely? Where did the worst fate lie: out there or in Mordhaus? Pickles wouldn't be able to make a sword for Murderface, but he could definitely show him where Mamingdalafalafal laid if he were so inclined. And that, he wasn't. The only thing worse than Murderface in the Governor's chair was him seated there with Mamingdalafalafal in his sheath.

Southwest posed the path with less resistance. Maybe the riders didn't expect him to head out that way, as not many others would dare. Ever since the civil war destroyed Earth City, the nearest post of civilization, no one had any reason. These lands simply didn't hold up to the lauded safety of times past. Even Murderface didn't brave them, if his lack of communication with Earth City after taking it over were any indication. The last Pickles heard, the supply carts running back and forth with both material goods and people hardly stood a chance against the _other_ gangs, who migrated about these lands and called them their own.

Another horseman ahead forced Pickles back into temporary hiding. From his vantage point, the most common form of graffiti in this part of Mordland illuminated on the side of a building. _Who is Toki?_ For once, Pickles tried not to see it as philosophical or rhetorical. Maybe somewhere out there, there _was_ someone named Toki. But if everyone knew this name, if everyone asked, why hadn't he shown up yet to eject Murderface from his makeshift throne?

The best assumption on Pickles' part regarding a live, breathing person was that Toki took Earth City back from Murderface. That being the case, maybe he didn't threaten Mordland because his own home was all he cared about. Maybe he was just a bigger man than Murderface, could feel content with peace and didn't need to expand his reach over more land than necessary. How difficult would it be, to get there? What kind of preparations did Pickles need to pass through the Wastelands? Maybe as a single traveller, he could go undetected. Go slow. Just follow the Wisconsin to where it meets the Mississippi. No shortcuts, no matter how many days it took.

Although Pickles occasionally entertained the notion that he might one day need to leave Mordland for his safety, the final strip of road before foliage overtook held him at bay. Solitude and a chill spelled out the rest of his days. It shouldn't make a difference; already, he was left cold and alone by the history breathed and suffered by the metropolis he called home. Anyone he ever knew was either dead or gone, now.

Tree cover plunged Pickles into absolute darkness. If not for the rushing river to his right, he'd have absolutely no idea what direction he moved in. He slowed when he started to sweat, then took a break when he needed to catch his breath.

Pickles dwelled quite a bit on things he couldn't help, but he would've eventually accepted the humdrum direction of his life in Tomahawk. For the first time since returning to Tomahawk, the cocktail of fear he experienced as Charles met his fate reemerged. This was real. Even though he fled, he dealt with this all over again. It reminded him a little too succinctly of his last journey through these woods, back before the Wastelands became the Wastelands. Now. . .Mamingdalafalafal seemed further away than ever before. Maybe he should've kept it. If he reforged it for himself, it could come in handy now.

_Very_ handy, if his ears didn't play tricks on him. Like back in the streets, Pickles froze when he heard a large quadruped wading through the snow to his rear. Fuck. Yes, the time Murderface's forces chose to come had to be when Pickles would be incredibly easy to follow. The redhead ran ahead anyway, tripping and struggling in the snow. A false dawn sunk his heart; although it'd do no good, he ducked down behind a tree. Maybe this wasn't the best way to go. How obvious, in hindsight, was his escape into the Wastelands? If only he'd planned better for this situation. He never truly believed he'd be tracked back here. His hometown seemed to exist in a completely different world than the political realm of Mordhaus.

A horse snorted, came to a stop, and torchlight skimmed over the end of Pickles' trail to touch his jacket arm. "What're you doing out here?"

Pickles kept his head down. "Jest travellin'. Leave me alone."

"State your name."

"Whet's it to you?"

"I'm searching for someone, so I would suggest you stop stonewalling me. . .Pickles."

And just like that, the refugee lost the fight that brought him this far. His chin slumped against his chest as the rider slid off his horse and unsheathed his sword. Although he couldn't see it in his peripheral vision, Pickles sensed its point somewhere near his right shoulder. "So whet happens now?"

"Get up."

With legs like jelly, Pickles used the tree as leverage. What choice did he have, but to go along with the cruel hand of fate? Well, judging by the lax grip utilized by the other man on his sword's hilt. . .

Pickles didn't execute it as cleanly as when Charles taught him, but the element of surprise rested on his side. Pure adrenaline stripped the rider of his weapon and a clean slice decapitated the would-be assailant. For a brief second, before the torch hit the snow and extinguished, the redhead heard Charles' congratulatory tone when he managed that maneuver in his private chambers. A little less restraint, and Pickles may have nearly done the same to _him_.

Somewhere on the ground, the steaming, cooling body bled out. As much as Pickles would love to hide or bury it, steal the man's cloak, and ride on under the guise of Mordhaus, things couldn't be that simple. He had a weapon, at least; determination reinstated, Pickles took the belt necessary to stow it and got up onto the animal. Although the horse was a little spooked by the alteration in weight and temperament, it kept on along the river with the right amount of encouragement.

To the southwest, Pickles crossed an area less affected by the blizzard. Running at full gallop in the new day's light eased his mind, that is, until the pounding hoofs beneath him gained echoes. One glance over his shoulder was enough to confirm that he had company. Could he make it all the way to Earth City like this? Surely, these riders would rather risk their lives than go back to Murderface empty-handed. How long until his horse collapsed from exhaustion? This was no short journey, and the animal already travelled hundreds of miles in the search for Pickles.

Every pound against the Earth acted as an alarm, disturbing the area's quiet nature and alerting those attune to it. Pickles nearly wrenched on the reins when horsemen approached from ahead, but where could he go? The gang besieged them too from the left and right. Pickles kept on straight, at full speed, unsure of the lesser evil and unable to pick. Someone chose for him, by sending an arrow zipping by his ear. Such was his shock to have been missed so narrowly, he keeled over sideways. A rapid roll in the snow left him more than a little disoriented, as well as birthed a sharp pain in his ankle.

Yelling, then the sound of his horse's departure faded away. So this was how he died. Well, better an arrow to the face than torture and forced betrayal back at Mordhaus, right?

One of the men appeared in Pickles' line of sight, as he gazed skyward. "You hurt?"

Pickles couldn't be bothered to tend or react to his physical pain. He nodded.

"Fetch his animal," the man instructed those near him. "It can bear the weight of Mordhaus' scum."

"I'm naht from Mordhaus." Maybe Pickles could appeal to these riders' humanity. "I don' werk fer Murderfeece—"

"Then why are you riding one of Mordhaus' black mustangs?" Before Pickles could respond, the man spoke on. "If that is your claim, then we hold no jurisdiction over your immediate fate. We'll take you with us back to New Valhalla, and it will be decided there."

"New Valhalla?" Pickles never heard of such a place before. Wherever he headed, he had little choice but to ease his way back onto his horse with some help and slump forward onto the animal's neck. Would anyone care if he fell asleep for a little while? Not that his injury or the prospect of having survived would let him get much.

Nodding off jogged the sun in a westward direction. Judging by its position in the sky, they still headed in general direction of Earth City. Maybe they were one in the same; communication blackout would limit Pickles' knowledge on it being renamed, for sure. Whatever it was called, fear reemerged. What awaited him there? Would he be allowed to explain his plight before being put to rest? If the Wastelands' riders belonged to Earth City, then what kind of warmongering culture did they reflect?

"We'll make camp here, tonight," the presumed leader announced, then looked to Pickles, "you'll stick close to me."

Unable to make an objection, Pickles simply went with it. He scarfed down the small amount of dried meat allotted to him and took his opportunity as the other men dozed off around the fire to plead his case. "Murderfeece's men were chasing me. I stole a guy's sword 'n' horse, thet's how I gaht them."

"Pardon my skepticism. Any hint that you're affiliated with Mordhaus can't go unchecked. You're lucky we even spared your life, today. We could've easily left you for the wolves." A long goatee and the firelight emphasized the man's angular face. Copper wire held long, frizzy hair at the nape of his neck.

"Whet's yer name?"

"You won't know that unless Toki labels you an ally."

"Toki?"

Yet again, no answer came. The next day, as their trek across Wisconsin continued, none of Pickles' captors spoke to him beyond issuing orders. His ankle swelled up inside his boot, painfully so, but a quick check had come up with nothing broken. Just a sprain, luckily enough.

He slouched against his horse's neck again late in the afternoon, miserable and feeling quite sorry for himself, when a call from the front of their company pulled everyone to a stop. The leader pointed in direction of the sun, and although it was difficult to make out, a black dot certainly distinguished itself.

"Meteor?" Someone suggested.

"Whatever it is, it's coming this way," the leader replied. "Don't see that everyday."

"It couldn't possibly be. . .?" Another shouted, causing Pickles' stomach to drop. From what he heard, though, the viking ships travelled much more smoothly than this heavenly reject. His instinctual fear went on hold; maybe it _was_ just a frozen chunk of space rock.

As it got closer, its speed—or lack thereof—became more apparent. Something coming from the deep recesses of space to collide with Earth would've already hit. The others realized this as well, realigning themselves in accordance with their surprise enemy. When it passed a couple miles over their heads, Pickles actually ducked. That definitely wasn't a landing. As confirmation, a loud _boom _sounded, followed by a shudder in the ground.

If Pickles had any say, he'd head off in the _opposite_ direction. On top of everything else that happened in the last forty-eight hours, he couldn't absorb the fact that a viking ship crash-landed right before his eyes. All he knew of this alien race came second-handed; he'd thanked Ishnifus everyday for a long while after Charles took care of them that he never came face-to-face with such brutes. And yet. . .after dealing with Murderface for so long, they hardly seemed at all like a threat. Maybe whatever occupied the ship died on impact and they could carry on to New Valhalla. Where Pickles may or may not be condemned to death.

"Okay everyone, we've dealt with these before," the leader addressed all as they cantered in a northern direction. "Dead or alive, they're coming back to New Valhalla with us. Preferably alive, if we can manage."

"Got a plan, Magnus?"

"Let's find out what we're dealing with, first."

"What about the captive?"

Magnus and Pickles' gazes met. "Take up the rear, but bring him along. If we run into any trouble, hang back. I'm pretty sure nothing would've survived that."

Despite his reserve toward encountering life from another world, Pickles craned his head the entire way. Sure, if the vikings were dead, he wouldn't mind checking out them or their ship.

"Did you deal with the vikings, when they went to Mordland?"

"Not direc—uhh. . ."

Magnus smirked. "So you _are_ affiliated with Mordhaus."

"Naht Murderfeece, though. I werked under Charles. You never gave me the chance to explain thet."

"Good man. . .if you're telling the truth. What was your position?"

"We were friends. But I made cutlery. Nothin' too exciting."

"So what does Murderface want with the knifesmith?"

Pickles shrugged. Like he was going to tell this guy about Mamingdalafalafal.

"Well?"

"I dunno. Naht much of whet Murderfeece does makes sense."

"Hm." Magnus wasn't satisfied with his answer and really, Pickles didn't blame him. Still, it sucked. He would've loved for the sudden appearance of vikings to put him on the back burner. Maybe he'd get the chance to escape or, even better, get a free ride into New Valhalla and fall back into obscurity while they dealt with this whole other issue.

Magnus trotted to the front as they closed in on the wreckage. The ship did more damage to the area—trees in its path either snapped or fell over, and the ship remained in one piece. The riders remained distant as their leader cautiously approached the resultant crater. Even from the back, Pickles made out twin tracks in the snow. With that, he didn't feel so confident anymore. Could they carry on their way, now? Just let the vikings go, to die of hunger or whatever?

"We'll follow," Magnus decided. "They can't have gotten far."

Pickles had no say, unfortunately, as his horse was led on in pursuit. Like coming up on the ship, he sat tall and craned ahead for any sight of the vikings. If the riders planned on taking them back to New Valhalla, that was going to put Pickles in _very_ close proximity to them. They weren't dangerous, right? Because getting away should a clusterfuck present itself wouldn't be easy, thanks to his injury.

"Oi!" Magnus held up his right fist, bringing all men to a stop. They'd found the end of the trail, where two figures dressed in space suits similar to what Charles described headed across a meadow. The uncertainty of what to expect tainted all parties; the vikings halted their march and Magnus ordered everyone to stay put while he advanced his horse a couple strides. "Can you understand me?"

No response. With dark, sleek metal obscuring their humanity—or whatever the vikings equated to the concept—Pickles found no reason to allow these forms further life. Why couldn't they just—?

The vikings mirrored Magnus' raised hand as he cautiously rode closer, but the horse stumbled sideways when a black blaze nearly singed its tail. The snow along the inferno's path melted, as well as that situated on the tree it hit. Pickles mirrored silent shock. Apparently no one else prepared for—let alone heard about—their ability to conjure fire.

The once cool tone Magnus adapted was abandoned when the one viking raised his hand again, and both revealed dark grey blades from their own sheaths. "Shoot them! Shoot them now!"

Two dozen bows were loaded with arrows. Even those that survived the next blast of flame had no effect; they stopped dead against the armour. One guy fell off his horse, clothes scorched, and as soon as Magnus saw that, his upper lip curled. "Draw your swords!"

The intensive training Magnus and his men went through in New Valhalla made itself apparent. Rather than twenty-four individuals rushing toward the vikings, they moved as one. Fire warped the air with its heat in response, disallowing the horses to get too close, and then ice entered the mix. The front half of one horse flash-froze, shattering like glass when its rider's weight forced it to the ground. Unfortunately for the vikings, even supernatural ability couldn't save them against Magnus' numbers. Kept busy, their powers faded. Magnus took the window of opportunity and called for a charge. One viking lost his sword, the other fell to its knees. Rapid use of thick rope forced them against one another. A rider retreated from the organized confusion with the other sword in hand. Just like tying a calf, Magnus jumped off his horse and secured both pairs of ankles and wrists. The vikings resisted but, for such a spirited effort, they'd been taken down.

Hands on his hips, Magnus panted as he looked them over. Danger aside, the rest of New Valhalla's best closed in. It struck Pickles then that he probably could've gotten away, in all the mayhem. Damn it.

"Anyone hurt? Melmord, Damien, you two okay?" The long-haired one boasted a scorched jacket and the other a bleeding nose, but neither put forth complaint. Satisfied, Magnus nodded to himself. "Well, should we take a look at what we're dealing with, here?"

Since everyone slid off their animals, Pickles couldn't see as well anymore. Rather, he was forced to listen. "Fascinating. . .look at this, here. The metal moves with no friction, yet there's no space between the pieces."

"Can you even get its helmet off?"

"Not sure. . ." Magnus wrenched and grunted in attempt. "Guess not. Maybe it's something mechanical. Never seen nothing like this, that's for sure. Not even the last time they came. They've upped their equipment."

"Hey Magnus," Melmord got his attention. "How're we gonna get these things back to New Valhalla? We're already short a horse, now."

"Guess we could drag 'em behind," Magnus suggested, to a round of guffaws. "But I don't want to exert the horses."

"It wouldn't be bad, if we tie them up to more than one. Distribute the weight, and all."

With no other option, that's what they wound up doing. The riders got a good laugh out of it when one pointed out the suited aliens resembled a gigantic turd pulling up the rear. Then, elevating the general mood even further, Damien earned a hefty amount of teasing for potentially having a saddle horn up his ass as he was forced to double with Melmord back to the city.

"It's only another ten miles," Magnus stated when asked if they would bother setting up camp. "Might as well just get there. I'd jump into the river if we lost this haul in the night."

Having hardly slept or been given the chance to get off his horse except for bathroom breaks, Pickles didn't care where he wound up anymore so long as he could collapse. Even his foot, pounding in tune to his heart, seemed distinct from his body. When the roaring Mississippi River sounded behind a high wall in the moonlight, he couldn't be more relieved.

"Let's get these vikings to Toki," Magnus stated. "He won't care if he's woken up over it."

"What about the other captive?"

"Oh. . .right." Magnus looked at Pickles. "I don't know. Hand him off to the prison. He'll be dealt with later. The vikings get priority."

Finally getting to elevate his ankle presented a silver lighting to imprisonment. At first Pickles shied away from a doctor checking out his injury, but before the man could even get his boot off, Pickles' eyelids grew too heavy to keep open any longer. He couldn't even care if he might be executed soon; at least in death, he'd get the rest he so desperately needed.


	4. Specimens

In a sense, Nathan wished being drug along behind these humans' animals hurt his body more than his pride. He would've rather died in some cave than be subjected to this. Maybe, by some stroke of luck, the round of vaccinations back home that incorporated this planet's collected strains skipped him. Then, he could just take off his helmet and go that way. What miserability did the humans have in store, otherwise?

His legs wobbled when forced to stand. At least a dozen sword points touching his suit made the point clear: should he try to escape, he was done for. What point was there in trying? Nathan _saw_ his fire lick that one human's arm, to no effect. Skwisgaar's attempt to freeze the other also went without consequence. For a species so sensitive to the vast temperature range of the universe, how did this thwart them?

To worsen he and Skwisgaar's humiliation, the ropes around their ankles and wrists were replaced by chain. Then, leads were tied around each of their necks. Nathan stumbled forward when the fetter caught on a hefty yank, inciting laughter amongst the humans. He could handle this if on his own, but the guilt to have involved another person curdled to an unbearable degree in his stomach. He should have let Skwisgaar win the argument about whether or not the _Mustakrakish_ remained grounded on Alpha Nero 7.

Unsure what else to say, though needing to say something, Nathan turned his radio on again. "I really _am_ sorry."

"So you keep sayings." All emotion since drained from Skwisgaar.

"I just want you to know, I didn't mean to drag you into something like this."

"It don'ts matter anymore."

But it _did_. Until now, Nathan didn't much consider the power of forgiveness. If he was about to die on an alien planet, he wanted to go with a clean conscious. At least any torture he got would be well-deserved. Then again, he'd need to bear the notion that Skwisgaar too, an innocent in this entire mess, would face the same tribulation.

They were led through torch-lit corridors, then came to a stop before a heavy door with bars posing as a small window. The cell was more spacious than Nathan expected, lit up as their shackles were removed and the humans finally left them to their own device. Skwisgaar immediately curled himself up in the furthest corner from the door, while Nathan took a seat on one of the benches provided. Well, better sooner than later, to see how this planet affected him health-wise. Was it a good or bad thing that the atmosphere matched exactly that which biology programmed Nathan for? Depended on what pain or further ridicule he needed to withstand before death finally granted escape. He removed his helmet.

"You ams probably going to get sicks." Skwisgaar stated through his external speaker.

"Don't care. I gotta piss."

"T'anks you for tellings me dat."

"Don't _you?_"

"Ja, but I nots going to bother."

While he would point out Skwisgaar's melodramatic attitude under normal circumstances, Nathan was in no position to further put the viking down. Instead, he disassembled his space suit and let out a sigh of relief as he utilized the toilet in the corner opposite the Hrimthursar. Such a simple thing in life never felt so good.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. The door clanged again, then someone stooped his head in order to enter their cell. His gaze met Nathan's, then he glanced over to find Skwisgaar. Rather than gesture them along with the same consonant-based language utilized by the other humans, this one rested the door on its frame and stepped further inside. "I almost didn'ts believes them when they tells there two vikings here."

Nathan furrowed his brow, immediately distrustful. "How do you speak our language?"

"Easy. I's one of you." He took a seat on the other end of Nathan's bench. An angular face, pale blue eyes, and the fu manchu typical of many viking men back home validated his claim. He still gravitated toward the colours of his home planet; his black clothes showed hints of yellow. "My name's Toki. I's originally from Jötenheimr. Ands you are. . .?"

"Nathan. And that's Skwisgaar." He gestured at the other viking. "Why are you here? You're not a prisoner."

"I's been here a while now. Three years, about. Six Earth years."

"'Earth'?"

"Is whats the humans call they planet."

"_That's_ not pretentious." Nathan encountered a lot of worlds called Earth in the lifeforms' own tongue, but he was a little bitter after being degraded, shackled, and imprisoned. "You came here with the original crew that was supposed to pillage the place?"

"Yeps."

"Where're the rest that didn't come home?"

In the flickering torchlight, Toki appeared a lot older than his early twenties, where Nathan mentally placed him. "Ohhh. . .they's dead."

"The humans killed them?"

"Nots really. They got sick when they tooks off they space suits."

Nathan eyed his pile of armoured protection on the floor. Maybe Skwisgaar had the right idea, about keeping it on. "So then why're _you_ still alive?"

"Gots lucky, I guess." Toki shrugged. "I was sicks too. Just when I thoughts I was done, I starteds getting better. I guess my immune system could handles it, when the others couldn't.

"But we cans talk about that another time. I just comes to see if what Magnus tell me is true. And you gettings moved out of here, so I shows you where you staying. Just a few things you goings to has to take at face value rights now: one, you still prisoners. Two, no one here knows I's a viking, so you can'ts blow that for me or else we's all done for. Three, you goings to be under surveillance since the scientists here wants to study you, and I can't says nothing against it without it seemings fishy. Okays?"

The initial spark of hope that came with Toki flickered. "Why can't you get us out of here?"

"Is. . .complicated." Toki chose the word carefully. "I needs to ask you, is there others coming?"

A disdainful snort came from Skwisgaar's corner.

"No," Nathan articulated for Toki's sake. "We're, uh. . .not supposed to be here, long story short."

Toki checked himself when he opened his mouth to respond. "There's a lots of things I sure we wants to ask each others, but we don'ts got the time rights now. I can'ts be seen talking to you, because no one arounds here should know how to speaks our language. It alreadies hard enough blending in, without other vikings around what to compares me to. But I tells you this: so long as you don'ts die from getting sick, you bes okay. Humans aren'ts all mean, and most are just curious.

"I's goings to takes you now to where you'll stay. You at least gets to be together, since the scientists want to see hows we—you—interact. And yous will be comfy. I promise."

Nathan's shoulders slumped when Toki fetched their makeshift leads and holds from the corridor. "Are those really necessary?"

"They's just for show. I trusts you, but everyone else woulds think I's crazy if I lets you walk freely."

Resigned to it with little other choice, Nathan's relief to find someone on their side vetoed his dread, and dread dulled his relief in kind. For the tiny amount of comfort Toki provided, he made it clear that his own security held more importance than that of his brethren. At least, if Toki spoke the truth, they didn't have torture to look forward to.

This march down the corridor didn't encompass being paraded in front of the men who brought them here. The three of them descended some stairs and entered an underground tunnel. As far ahead as Toki's torch lit up, no end could be seen.

"There'll be eleckstricity again in the mornings," Toki stated. "Is kind of a luxury, so the city shuts down durings the night."

"You say a lot without really saying anything at all," Nathan pointed out. "When do we get answers? Information?"

"First of alls, I gots to clean up you mess. It wouldn'ts be good if the peoples learn you here. Mights cause a panic."

"You came here under my father, didn't you?"

"Who?"

"Oskar Explosion."

Toki studied him. "Ja, I did. And he lefts us to die. He was goods at his job, but he wasn'ts no diplomat."

"I never said he was." Nathan went immediately on the defensive. "What happened here? What went wrong?"

"We landeds _here_ first, what used to be calleds Earth City." Toki slowed his step. "Things was going normal. The first six ships was filling up whens we moved on to a place called Mordhaus, a city in the middles of lots of littlers towns. The Governor changed his mind about lettings us just come in and does us work, so you father trieds to kill him. This guy what worked for the Governor—names was Charles—drew _his_ sword. You father got stabbed. . .nots badly, but it lookeds a lot like it hurt. Ins the battle what follow, he and some others gots away. They makes it back to Yggdrasil?"

"My father passed about a month after. He kept getting sicker, no matter what the doctors did." Oskar told Nathan no different of a story—spare the cowardice part—leaving the Eldjötnar dissatisfied and full of regret to have come so far for answers. "What is it, with these humans? We couldn't even _touch_ those assholes that snatched us up."

"Nothings of ours work against them, fire, ice, eleckscricity, sword, what has you. I couldn'ts tell you why not. On that notes, I would suggest you keeps you power to yourself from nows on."

Since when did general crew give orders to the captains? Maybe fire held no weight in defence, but if the need arose Nathan wouldn't hesitate. Temptation presented itself after ascending another flight of stairs; two men in white coats greeted Toki with tones of captivation, one trying to touch Nathan's face as he blathered on in his own language. A grunt and turn away resulted in them further cutting each other off as they undoubtedly cast him in primitive light. He couldn't understand a word they said, and he was _already_ annoyed. Judging by Toki's reaction to them, this was an appropriate stance.

Windows lined the walls, looking into living quarters. Toki led them inside through a heavy door, where the scientists watched from the doorway as they were unchained. From this side, the windows became mirrors.

"You're really going to leave us with these assholes?" Nathan asked.

Toki glanced at him, but didn't respond before departing. Deadbolts clicked in multiple places, then silence fell. Moonlight streamed in through high windows, illuminating the room enough for Nathan to plainly see Skwisgaar remove his helmet.

It hissed upon release. "Dis ams fucking bullshit. Why didn'ts he help us gets out?"

"And go where?" Nathan replied. "This sucks, but. . .gotta admit, things turned out better than—"

"Don'ts you even dare. We still stucks on dis stupids planet, we don'ts got no ship, no one know where we ams, and we ams going to be watched alls day and all night." Skwisgaar's helmet thudded against the floor as he threw it. "Maybes we not beings tortured, but dese assholes am goings to poke and prods us anyway. Or we get sicks and die. If I gots to spends de rest of my lifes here for _your_ stupids mistake, den I wants it to end sooners dan later."

"Look, I've given you as close to an apology as I can about dragging you here, but cut it with the attitude. It's not going to change anything. Might as well just go along with it."

"Ams easy for _yous_ to say! Dese am conkisgence for yous own stupidity. _You_ nots been forced into anyt'ing." Skwisgaar's gloves and boots came off next. "We don'ts know what dese t'ing eat, what dey calls fun, or anyt'ing like dat. Maybes we starve, or maybes go crazy wit' boredom. If de light goes off every night, dat ams guarantee dat dere amn't no good bars. . .nots dat we coulds go dere anyway."

"I don't know why you're bitching at me. There's nothing I can do to fix it and it won't make anything better."

"Maybes now you feels a _fraction_ of what _I _does." Skwisgaar poked him in the chest. "If we wasn't stucks in dis tinys place, you cans guarantee you wouldn't sees me again. You probably won'ts anyway. You stays away from my room. I gets de bigger one, I deserves it."

"No way, you're smaller than me!"

"Thinners, but I's taller. And _you's_ the one what fucks up, so you gets de one I don'ts want."

"You're making it really easy not to want to see _you_, Skwisgaar."

"Goods, I's glad. Den you won'ts feel no compulsions to talks to me."

Skwisgaar left his suit in the middle of the floor as he attempted to choose a bedroom. To his apparent chagrin, both were the exact same size. He picked one anyway, slamming the door behind him. Alone, Nathan set out to explore the rest of his new accommodations. While he had plenty of time to get acquainted—then bored—of the place, his curbed fear allowed a rumble in his stomach to exist. What _did_ humans eat, exactly?

The door leading to what he suspected as the kitchen was locked. Although annoyed, Nathan peeked in the last room not accounted for. Ugh, did the humans' curiosity _seriously_ extend to their bathroom habits and doings, taking the mirror into consideration? Where the hell could Nathan _ever_ get privacy? Even his room's one wall boasted a two-way mirror.

He simply wasn't meant to have it, according to all this. And that made sense; if the humans wanted to learn about his behaviour, they couldn't allow the subjects to select what remained hidden. Even more creepy, he could tell they watched him right now. Not only could he hear quiet whispering through the wall, but his skin crawled with unease. This must be what his early ancestors felt like, when competing with big cats and dogs in Asgård's jungles for food. His attempt to escape it led to his bedroom, where he could at least hide beneath the blanket.

A bell sounding captured his curiosity. The door he found locked earlier now stood ajar, the scent of food leading him. Mouth watering, Nathan peered into the room. Nothing seemed suspicious about it.

He knocked on Skwisgaar's door. "There's food here."

"Goes away."

"Aren't you hungry?"

No further response came. Dismissing the Hrimthursar, Nathan returned to the kitchen. For all the variety provided, most of the food was immediately dismissed. His hunger didn't grow severe enough for the leafy stuff to appear appetizing, and the colourful, watery fruit only tasted bland with a sour aftertaste. Even the meat disappointed. Perhaps raw, it wouldn't have varied from what Nathan normally subsisted on. It fell apart between his teeth, caught in his throat like dust, and left him even hungrier. Desperate to feel satisfied, he picked at the vegetables.

The upside of being a self-aware, intelligent creature was that while the humans learned about Nathan, he did the same in kind. Omnivorous, with low levels of energy input necessary to properly function. Couldn't see as well in the dark, judging by how the scientists squinted at him upon introduction. Were quicker due to their smaller size, although that could also be attributed to armour slowing Nathan down. Unable to interact with the minute particles of nature in order to manipulate basic elements. Somehow extremely resilient against—bordering on or possibly unaffected completely by—foreign life forms, no matter the method, including viking pathogens. While everything else fell in line with reason, that particular attribute required further contemplation.

Just like back home, foliage worked on Nathan as an emetic. Lowering the toilet lid proved his punishment. Coming out of the bathroom, Skwisgaar leaned against his door frame. "Ams you already sick?"

"Was my own fault. I ate greens."

"Ja, t'anks for leaving some meats for de rest of us, bys de way."

"They only put out a little bit. Maybe once they realize we don't eat the same way they do, that'll change."

"Hope so. I's fucking starved. And I needs to eat as much as I cans, before dis sick craps catch up. Even if I goings to die, I wants a good last meal."

"You wouldn't have found it here, anyway. They cook their meat."

"Oogh." Skwisgaar pulled a face at the mere suggestion. "They betters catch on quick, if dey wants to study us. Ot'erwise we goings to die befores we even gets de chance to _be_ sick."

It wouldn't be _that_ quick, but hunger distorted the sense of time. Without another word to his grumpy counterpart, Nathan retreated into his room. Several hours passed since the last time he slept. At least one thing vikings and humans agreed upon was what a comfortable bed felt like. . .even if his feet hung over the end of the mattress.

A fitful couple hours ended with the kitchen bell sounding off. Unsure whether he heard it or not, Nathan rose to investigate. Although helpful, he detested being treated like such an animal.


	5. Number 12

Toki floated in an awful world between absolute fatigue and a mind too wired to sleep. Upon return to his private quarters, he tossed and turned before resigning to staring at the ceiling.

Three years was an awfully long time to be away from his home planet. Jötenheimr may as well exist solely in dreams. How did it feel, again, for true variation in climate to challenge Toki's bones? What did his parents look like? His mother tongue sounded strange when speaking to Nathan; not long after Oskar Explosion's abandonment did Toki's thoughts naturally occur in the language taught to him by Charles. Even after witnessing all the other vikings die, abandoning his post with news of Charles' death, and wrenching this city away from Murderface, Toki considered his life here comfortable. Inability to harm humans failed to deter him from a position of leadership—in fact, it helped. People trusted a diplomat, not so much a bloodthirsty murderer. Nothing cinched that more than how many people departed Mordland despite the propaganda regarding danger outside its borders. Toki made sure their leap of courage went well-rewarded. Where in Mordland they suffered beneath the thumb of tyranny, here in New Valhalla they gained the freedom to create a home and establish themselves. There was no shortage of jobs, and even for its size, New Valhalla resembled more a community than some disconnected city.

It always existed in the back of Toki's mind that this planet wouldn't forever remain forgotten by his own kind. While contact could rekindle at literally any time—like it did, tonight—Earth's richness in history and culture made it easy to forget that a removed race could so easily jar it. Toki liked it here enough to call it home. Then again, he felt the same way about Yggdrasil. While he appreciated the opportunity to put down roots in two different corners of the universe, no matter where Toki went now, he'd always miss something.

Frustrated at the lack of sleep, Toki threw his covers off. Three years, and he still hadn't accustomed to a twenty-four hour long day. He slipped sometimes into staying awake every other night, mostly in the summer when a yearning for real companionship ailed his heart. For all the friends Toki acquired on Earth, a special kind of loneliness set him aside. Humans and vikings paralleled emotionally and socially, but Toki never _truly_ blended in. Even on the short end of the viking height spectrum, he was taller than any human he ever met. He filed his canine teeth and ate alone so that no one would notice his meat-exclusive diet. On the nights he didn't sleep, he pretended to. Everyday he played the part, and while he loved his friends and the citizens he offered safe haven to, it grew tiresome sometimes. He got homesick, hungry for contact with someone that he could fully relax around.

Were Nathan and Skwisgaar still awake?

Silent steps brought him to an empty lab. Peering into the makeshift apartment, Toki caught no movement. Both bedroom doors were shut, compelling him to sneak around to the other side. Nathan laid facing away from the two-way mirror, but Toki's stomach flopped when he found Skwisgaar pacing. With his arms tightly crossed against his chest, the blond muttered venomously under his breath. Every once in a while he'd sit down on his bed, look around, then rise again in a sudden movement. Contorting his face like that marred pleasant features. However his exterior amounted in attractiveness, he didn't match on the inside from what Toki witnessed of his earlier outburst. Although, Toki had to admit, he'd experienced similar anger upon first realization that he was marooned on a foreign planet.

Unsure and generally uncaring if Nathan and Skwisgaar would be happy to see him again, Toki doubled back to the unit entrance. He expected both vikings to emerge immediately upon hearing the deadbolt, but it took a moment before Skwisgaar's door creaked open. His eyes gleamed in the pale moonlight before the silhouette of his face manifested. "Whats you doing back?"

"I. . .comes to check on you."

Skwisgaar scoffed. "You cares about us, all de sudden? Starts talking about letting us out, or goes away."

"I can explains it all to you, if you like—"

"Just screws off, all rights? No matters how you tell it to me, it am de same: I's a fucking prisoner, and dat ams dat."

"I was likes this, once," Toki told him. "I was a prisoner what was studied, and now I's free. It isn'ts forever."

Skwisgaar narrowed his eyes, but that drew him from behind his door. Now that he stood up straight before the Jötnar, Toki could appreciate his height. "So if dey already studies _you_, den why does _we_ gots to be studied, uh. . .I forgots your name."

"Toki."

"Rights. So explains dat."

Toki took a seat on one of the provided furnishings and waited for Skwisgaar to do the same. "I wasn't studies here. Is long and complicated, but all the things what the humans learned from me was destroyed. Evens if all that stuff was still around, it was a secrets thing over in Mordhaus. No ones here knew any of the viking survived. This is completely new to thems."

"So how long until we gets released? How longs did dey keeps _you?_"

"A year and a half. Then the shits hit the fan and we all hads to leave Crystal Mountain."

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow as silent inquiry.

"I starts at the beginning, I guess." Toki took a deep breath as he attempted to pinpoint where exactly that was. So much had happened, in three years. "You heards what I said earlier, about Oskar. Most of us gots left behind when he runs for it. There was over a hundreds of us that gots captured by Charles Offdensen, who I guess was responsibles for Oskar's death."

Skwisgaar nodded in confirmation.

"We was takens out of Mordhaus rights away. Charles didn'ts tell nobody that Oskar and them lefts, and this city—what used to be calleds Earth City but I renames New Valhalla—" Toki shifted when Skwisgaar's lips slid into a smirk, "was tolds that we all died so thats no one would panic. He tooks us all to a place outside Mordhaus, called Crystal Mountain. And that's where I was a prisoner. They gaves us all numbers, to keep track. I was numbers twelve."

Skwisgaar's gaze followed Toki's hand as he pulled his shirt down to reveal the designation hastily tattooed below the right side of his collar bone.

"This number didn'ts matter, after only a week. I won't says much about that because I don'ts want to scare you, but likes I said, I was the only one what survived."

"When Oskar come back, dey addeds all de human pathogen dey could salvage to de VIB, so we gots immunized. I's hoping dat mean somet'ing, even though dere am t'ree year of mutations since den." Skwisgaar paused. "Or maybes I don't care. I don'ts know. Is hard to t'ink rights now if I wants to live anymore."

"That's a little dramatic, don'ts you think?"

"_Pfft_. We sees, I guess. You has to admits dat _you_ felt somet'ing likes dat when you forst got stucks here. If Nat'an wasn't such a fuckings idiot, I would stills be in a whole ot'er galaxy rights now. Because of him, I mights never get to go home." A waver in Skwisgaar's voice undermined the tough persona he emanated. "Likes fat'er, like son, I guess."

"You shouldn'ts assume that. None of us know what's going to happens."

"I can'ts even imagine us ever beings let out of_ here_. I shoulds has been back to Hvergelmir de week after next, if t'ing went accordings to plan on Alpha Nero 7." Skwisgaar sighed. "Why dey lets you out, anyway?"

"I. . .guess they didn'ts, really." As much as Toki wanted to comfort Skwisgaar, to offer hope, he owed the Hrimthursar the truth. "The scientists and I left Crystal Mountain to comes here after we burns the lab down, since they didn'ts want me or any informations about the vikings to fall into the wrong hands. We gots attacked by Moidaface's stupids guys, and all over agains I was the only one to gets away. I guess you could calls it lucky that I free, but those scientists was my friends. So was Charles. Everyone I cares about always ends up dying."

"Who ams dis Moidaface?"

"The asshole what kills Charles." The resultant chaos affected New Valhalla to this day; the people _still_ worked to revive the damaged infrastructure brought about by civil war. "An enemys of the state."

"Right," Skwisgaar breezed that aside. "So if it am a flukes dat got you out of captivities, what that mean for me? Does I gots to wait until dis Moidaface or whoever run dis city die to makes a break for it? It amn't like I cans do much damage. We's fucked against humans, like you said. Dey can kill us, we can'ts kill _dem_. So I amn'ts a danger."

"Does you really wants to steps out of here and makes youself known to the humans, with that in mind?"

"Don't tries to spin dis like you ams protecting me. Dat am bullshit. _You_ walks free, so it ams possible. You say dere am no eleckskricity in de night, so dere amn't no cameras on us right now. Just breaks us out. Say dat we dids it ourselves."

"I can'ts."

"And why nots?"

"It isn'ts that simple." Jailbreak presented an option, but Toki needed time to extensively consider all courses of action. He wanted Skwisgaar and Nathan out of here just as much, empathetic to their plight, but his position as presiding Governor over New Valhalla obligated him to prioritize his subjects. Would they be fascinated or horrified by the presence of aliens among them? Could they reach the conclusion that _he_ was one of them? Humans weren't stupid, not in the least. Their evolutionary tract, much like that of the vikings, bred them to seek patterns. When Toki stood beside Skwisgaar and Nathan, the similarities would draw attention. The accent and difference of culture he brought from Yggdrasil would undermine his alibi of originating from a decimated village further north. "At the verys least, I needs to trust that you woulds keep up the same lies I do. I can'ts be exposed—is too big a risk, for _everything_. And there are peoples what know you here, now. The scientists, the military. . .I can'ts just fake you death. And that's just to considers for you leaving _here_, lets alone the planet. You ship crashed. . .I hasn't seen it yet, I's going out tomorrow with Magnus to look, but if is damaged, how woulds you plan on fixing it when you aren't supposed to knows anything about the vikings? There are other ships here, what I comes to Earth with, but just cargo ones. None what will gets you home."

"Why can'ts we just be who we ams? Why all dis secrecy? Ams human _really_ scareds of us? Dis ams de only planet _ever_ what we won'ts touch. It amn'ts wort' de effort, when dere am so many ot'er planets we can pillage. You woulds t'ink if de human hate us dis much, dey woulds be _happy_ to sends us off."

"The military is already worrieds that there mights be more coming. Is why I ask Nathan, when we first mets in the jail. I can'ts even explain to Magnus how I knows nothing going to happen. I has to prepare like mores will come, and act all concerned about it. Evens after everyone realize no one else is, then I has to weight the consequences of sendings you home. If no one know where you are, then what wills happen to Earth when they _do_ knows where you was? Wills we have to deal with an attack in the future?"

"It won'ts fucking matter, because de vikings want not'ing to _does_ wit' dis stupids planet!" Skwisgaar balled his fists in frustration. "Dese people t'ink it so greats, dat everyone want a piece of it? Fucks dis stupids rock! Is de stupidest place in de entires universe!"

"Is their home, Skwisgaar. Is _my_ home. So naturally, we worries."

"Whats you mean,_ your_ home? You ams a Jötnar, of Jötenheimr."

"Nots anymore." Toki shook his head. "I don'ts feel like it. I has becomes one of these people, here. They depends on me."

"Dat don'ts matter. You ams a viking. Maybes we look like humans, but dat don't mean jack _shits_. You mights fit in wit' dem, but dere am t'ing you'll never change." Skwisgaar bared his fangs. "Ams biology."

"I don'ts got those anymore." Toki moved beside him so that he could show Skwisgaar his filing job. "I gives it up."

"So you eats de same t'ing what de humans do, den?" Hesitation on Toki's part compelled Skwisgaar to continue. "Look, I gets it. You believe you was stucks here all alone, so you acts like a human in order to survive. But dis amn't who you am. How cans you renounce being a viking when you comes from an entirely different place? Dese people evolved to live here, _you_ didn'ts. How cans you call dis a _true_ home? Don'ts you miss Jötenheimr?"

"Nots enough to leave here, and I don'ts believe biology is _thats_ important. We breathes the same kind of air, we think and feels thing the same, so on that grounds us and humans are equal. So whats, if they got longers digestive tracts than us? The _real_ problems is that we comes here like a bunch of assholes, rattle them up, and now they thinks of us as a hostile race."

"_Pfft_."

"You wouldn'ts feel the same if someone comes like that to Nieflheimr?"

"It wouldn'ts happen. Dere am no one in de universe dat wants to fuck wit' us."

"That we's discovered, yet. Remembers the first thing they tells us, in Collections training: we's only the winners until we's the losers. And the humans has proved that."

Skwisgaar scoffed again, though with less gusto. The lack of a scowl on his face refined him into someone Toki would've taken a second glance at in the streets of Utgard, Jötenheimr's capital. Numbness where exaltation once existed further proved the divide between who Toki once was and who he'd become. At least he could still enjoy speaking so frankly to someone. Already, in the short time he and Skwisgaar sat here, the blond knew more about him than any of the humans Toki kept closest.

"So things are more complicateds than you realize," Toki continued. "I needs you to appreciate that. I's goings to do everything I cans to gets you out of here, but it isn'ts going to be easy. Just gives me time and I tries."

"T'anks you, I guess." Skwisgaar shrugged. "Woulds be a dick move to leaves us here to rots. Well, Nat'an can, for all I care. But I don'ts desorve dis."

"Nathan don'ts deserve it, either. He mades a mistake and it sucks that you gots caught up in it, but you's going to realize pretty quick that you lucky you got someones to pal around with. Don'ts throw that away so hastily. You tooks for granted all your life that you're surrounded by you own kind. There's only three of us here, on this wholes entire planet. You aren'ts the dominant race no mores and Nathan's in the same boats as you, so tries to get along. Is a whole different kinds of lonely, if you don'ts."


End file.
